A 9-year-old teaches her dad a valuable lesson about soccer, competition, and being grateful for what you get.
As the father of two daughters, there are times when I feel like I’ve got to give it to them straight: if you’re bloodthirstier you eat better. This can’t be all fun and games. Life is hard.
Recently, our oldest daughter, 9-year-old Agatha, competed in soccer tryouts. She’s been playing soccer since she was 4, and last season she started on defense for the A team in the competitive league. She’s got great hand-eye coordination, and she is as quick as she is fast. But she lacks a killer instinct. She’s been known to apologize during a match if she bumps someone too hard or kicks an opponent in her (guarded) shins. And she’ll laugh out loud on the field if the situation calls for it. Sure, it’s sportsmanlike and fun, but it’s not hardcore soccer. And now that she’s 9, if you ask me, it’s time to focus more on how to beat opponents down and less on having fun. After all, winning is the goal, right?
I reorganized my work schedule so I could attend both days of tryouts. When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was that there were about twice as many girls trying out as last year. The next thing I noticed was how big the girls seemed. In fact, when we checked in I had to make sure that we were indeed at the tryouts for the under-10 league.
Agatha’s proportionately built and muscular, but she’s shorter than most kids her age. I could relate to that, and I told her so. Until I was 17, I’d always been the smallest kid in class. Then things changed. I know that deep down, Agatha must harbor some pain about being short. She says she doesn’t, but I know better. Anyway, most of the kids at this year’s tryouts looked like Amazons next to my kid. I told her to be quick.
She didn’t seem nervous at all. And why should she? She just wants to play. She’s comfortable with her skill level, even though she’ll tell you she’d like to learn to get better. But mostly she just loves the camaraderie. I don’t have the heart to tell her the truth: that this is a prestigious level of competitive soccer, and that which team a child plays for is how parents measure themselves.
So I watched from the sideline, biting my tongue and standing with a few other parents from last year’s A team. We all seemed intently focused on whether our kid was impressing the tryout scouts. Parents mumbled encouragement and disgust, sometimes in the same breath. And I was right there with them (the fire was roaring), although I pretended to care less than everyone else. Cool, calm, and collected. That’s me.
Afterward, Agatha was drenched and smiling and completely satisfied with her effort. I was satisfied, too, though I did mention that she looked a little afraid of one very big girl who dominated everyone on the field. “I know! I was!” she said without hesitation. We both laughed and walked off the field together in the lavender dusk.
♦♦♦
Our daughters attend Montessori school. No pressure. No homework. No competition. Just kindness, grace, and peace. Not coincidentally, none of her friends at school play soccer. Good soccer players her age don’t go to Montessori school. They attend business prep school where they learn to orchestrate hostile takeovers.
Agatha’s sister, Cozette, is 6. When the weather’s nice, you can usually find them in our yard creating imaginary worlds with chalk and bubbles, playing with the dogs, having water wars with the hose, and exploring bugs. Two Christmases ago, Santa brought a soccer net, the kind that returns the ball to you when you kick it in just the right spot. It sits, mostly unused, next to the shed out back. As busy middle-class parents, we don’t have a lot of time to drill her soccer skills.
But if the skill level of the girls trying out was any indication, we were in the minority in how we manage our children’s playtime. The competition this year was fierce. (It made me resent Maria Montessori a bit.)
Before we arrived for Day 2 of tryouts, I took Agatha aside and told her to leave everything she had on the field. Have fun, yes, but also compete on every play. And I left her with this: “You don’t play soccer with your legs. You play it with your heart.” It was one of my rare moments of parenting brilliance—the stuff of inspirational business posters.
During the tryouts, I avoided other parents and spent my time assessing the talent. There were more than fifty girls, probably ten of whom were much better than Agatha—more speed, better footwork, relentless. The scouts appeared to group the girls in teams based on their assessment of their skill level from the previous day. The best team was obvious. They were tough, ruthless girls who rolled over, passed through, and dribbled around the children in their path. They called out to each other, swarming with innate intent like a pack of velociraptors.
I couldn’t watch Agatha’s every move, but from what I saw she beat every girl she confronted, holding her position beautifully. Her footwork was immaculate and her passing was crisp. Amazingly, she seemed to slow the game down a bit—something I’d preached to her for years but that she hadn’t seemed to grasp until now. Her team never had to face the Amazon stormtroopers, and for that I was grateful. She left her heart on the field, and she was happy. I couldn’t have been more proud.
Then came the waiting. The scouts had to compile notes, put rosters together, and call the players to let them know if they made one of the three teams. Two nights later, the call came. It was her new coach. She introduced herself, shared her qualifications, and was eager to talk to Agatha directly to see if she’d accept her offer to play on the B team.
The B team.
My heart sank. I felt cheated. I tried not to look disappointed as I walked the phone into Agatha’s bedroom, where she was playing with little plastic animals in an imaginary land she’d created on the floor. I handed her the phone and said I didn’t know who it was. My wife came running up to me as I closed the door. “Is it them? Is it the soccer league? Is it Katie (her coach from last year who was going to coach the U-10 A team this year)?” I nodded, nodded again, and then shook my head. A frown came over her face. Her heart sank for Agatha, too.
We waited in the hallway, expecting tears. I readied a speech about how sports should be fun. But what we heard next caught us both off guard. We heard giggling. And laughing. Followed by a couple of “Cools,” a “That’s awesome!”, and finally a “Thank you. I can’t wait!”
Agatha burst out of her room, slapped the phone into my palm, and shouted, “I made it! And I get to make all new friends!”
And, at that moment, I was reminded again that the women in my life make me a better man.
—Jim Mitchem
Insightful as always, Jim. It’s amazing how much our kids can teach us, so long as we’re willing to listen and learn.
I’m with you, Aaron. It’s a total learning experience, this. Thanks for the comment.
My son is only two, but this moment is coming for me. I played three sports a year growing up. I was good, never great. I wasn’t as talented as most of the other players, but I made up for it in effort. I may not be the best, but I made sure I worked the hardest. Needless to say I’m extraordinarily competitive, sometimes to a fault. I have to be honest, I wondered whether I would’ve just told my son congratulations for making the B team, or told him good job but with a little more work he could’ve… Read more »
Thank you Jeanne – my wife Tina’s not all that fiery w/athletics like I am. It’s hard for me to taper it down.
Kat – Thank you. Yes, we have Whale Rider, and yes, I think it’s time to show it to the kids. Love that movie.
Paul – Amen, brother. I decided when Agatha was little that my job is to raise a compassionate human being. That’s it. Whatever else happens is not my doing, directly. I love the image of the glove gathering dust, by the way.
I remember when my son went up the ranks of baseball tryouts; having gone from “everyone wins and plays” to a more competitive adolescent situation where those who were good played the most and those that did not, went home. Unfortunately, he did not make the cut and we faced our first “survival of the fittest” life moment. Trying to explain the complexities of life, sports, competiton, winning and losing to a 12 year-old kid is challenging; especially if you love him madly and would do anything to prevent him from getting hurt. But, life is often messy and does… Read more »
What a fabulous post! I just adore your girls, from every tweet you’ve ever shared about them. I love their hearts and their spunk, their imagination, and their brilliance. What good parents you and Tina are. And what a great Dad you are to pay such close attention and let your girls teach you as much as you teach them. Oh, I want to be more like Agatha all the time. To see opportunities and joy at every turn. She’s a natural. The rest of us have to work at it. Thank you for this beautiful story. (By the way,… Read more »
Wonderfully written. I was holding my breath in the hallway too! Then a huge smile crossed my face for Agatha. My husband and I are both fiercely competitive athletes, yet neither one of our children plays sports. It’s been an adjustment for us (well, for my husband more so), but we’re learning from our children that life isn’t just one big sporting event. Kudos to you, Jim! Enjoy the soccer season.
Thank you Lisa. The way I see it, I’m just showing up and noticing things.
You are a lucky man, Jim. However, reading that post just goes to show me exactly how lucky your daughters are. Wish my Dad had stuck around to be there for us, like you are for Agatha and Cozette.